


The Reaping

by miss_grey



Series: The Morrigan [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Animal Death, F/F, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 19:05:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3261011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jo Harvelle is given up into the hands of Death, and something unexpected happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Reaping

**Author's Note:**

> The idea came to me last night and refused to leave me alone until I wrote it, so here it is. I hope you enjoy!

 

 

The people of Glenwood spoke of her in whispers, hushed behind hands, told softly, haltingly, in front of hearth fires on cold winter nights.  _Wives’ tales,_ the men said, but still they crossed themselves at night before bed, and always said their prayers before battle.  She was a fairy story, a children’s tale, and yet, all the people feared her. 

They claimed she was the silent shadow that dwelled in the forest beyond the village fires, the one who claimed that wild borderland for her own.  She was the hunter, the taker, the bringer of balance.  Solemn one, reaper.  Morrigan.

_She holds our lives in her hands, and one day we all shall meet her._ They respected her, and they feared her, even as they muttered that she could not be real.

 

 

 

All who dwelt in Glenwood knew her laws—they were sacred, carved in the trunk of an ancient tree in the middle of the village square.  _Harm no innocent,_ and _walk with honor, even unto death.  The wolves and ravens are sacred to me—do them no harm.  Tread the forest with respect, and never seek to spy upon me.  Keep the covenant with me, and my wrath shall be quelled._

 

* * *

 

 

In the late days of Autumn, as the Winter months drew near, the son of the village elder went into the woods to hunt, dismissing the common warnings out of hand.  He was not gone but for more than an hour when he stumbled upon a large, majestic wolf, who gazed back at him without fear.  The hunter had a moment—only a moment—where he remembered the vow, before he brushed it away, strung an arrow, and lined up his sight.

The wolf did not die easily.  Its moaning, mournful howl shivered through the forest, echoing eerily, and blood pulsed from its fatal wound, staining the ground as it struggled to crawl away.  The hunter followed it, remorseless, stalking it until it could summon no more strength, and he ended it.  All for the sake of a pelt, which he took as soon as the wolf was still.

When the hunter returned to his home that night, he did so with a sense of pride and assurance—a feeling that no one else shared.  They whispered again, when they saw what he had, and some of the women cried.  _She’ll be angry._

 

* * *

 

 

She felt the loss in her bones, in the core of her being, like someone had set fire to her blood.  The forest itself wept at the death wail.  And _she,_ the Morrigan, turned her eyes toward Glenwood, intent on finding some solace in the spilling of blood—one life for another.  The earth quaked under her feet as she went.

She came to them in the night, snuffing their fires and chilling their hearts.  Their windows rattled at her approach, and one by one, they peeked out their doors, until finally she had their attention.  Standing in the center of the village, she called out “ _One of you has violated our covenant by killing one of my wolves.  I’ve come to demand recompense.  I want nothing less than a life for a life—the one who stole my dear friend from me.  You have until sunset tomorrow, or I will shake your village to the ground and gather you all for the Otherworld._

* * *

 

 

 

The villagers quaked with their fear, and though they knew a life must be paid, no one dared to suggest the real culprit, for he and his father were too wealthy, and too powerful.  They would never be held accountable for their actions.  No, the people knew another life would have to be forfeit, and they only prayed it was not theirs.

The village elders plotted and mumbled, the whole long hours of the night through.  They turned each name over on their tongues, tasting the way each loss might feel, until finally they settled on the obvious choice.

 

 

They chose a woman who no one would miss, a woman they called a whore,and a witch, a woman who never fit in and had no family left.  She was too much of everything.  Too beautiful, too brash, too loud.  Too stubborn, and unable to hold her tongue.  She lived alone near the forest, and scathingly rejected the company of the village men.  She was young and blonde, and strong, with piercing eyes and a stubborn chin.  Her mother had called her Joanna Beth Harvelle.

They came for her in the hour just before dawn.  It was the hunter’s father who kicked in her door, the village elders who disarmed her, kicking and screaming, and dragged her outdoors, the hunter himself who bound her hands.

They gagged her so that she couldn’t scream, and though she fought, they pulled her unwillingly to the edge of the forest, where they bound her feet, and chained her to a tree to await her fate.  And then, they left her there.

 

* * *

 

 

Jo Harvelle refused to weep.  She hadn’t shed a tear since her mother’s death, and she wasn’t about to start now.  She refused to give her captors the satisfaction.  Neither would she beg for her life when the Morrigan came.  If she was going to die today, to pay for the deeds of other folk, she was going to do so with dignity.

She waited there for hours, until her throat went dry and her wrists chafed against her bindings.  She watched the sun move slowly overhead, and eventually sink behind the trees.  Then dusk settled around her, and she waited still.

She heard the Morrigan coming, heralded by the haunting howls of countless wolves.  Jo tensed, and held her breath.  Above her, she heard the flutter of wings, and then suddenly, a woman stepped out of the tree cover.  She was everything and nothing that Jo expected, and she shivered to be in her presence.  The woman’s hair and gown were dark, like a raven, but her skin was smooth and pale.  Her eyes were a swirling hazel—the color of the forest—and unfathomable.  She was beautiful, so _achingly, terrifyingly beautiful,_ and Jo knew this was what Death looked like.

Jo gulped, frozen in a state of terror and awe, and allowed herself a moment to revel in the knowledge that all of the stories were real.  And then, the Morrigan reached out one pale, delicate hand, and Jo readied herself for the end.  But the Morrigan paused, her eyes narrowed, gaze dark.  And Jo knew she could see the truth.

And so, instead of reaping Jo’s soul as payment for the hunter’s crimes, the Morrigan broke her bonds, and bid Jo to rise to her feet.  Jo did as she was told, her muscles shaking from the strain, blood rushing back into her limbs.  She took a deep breath, exhaled. 

The Morrigan smiled at her then, a dark, savage smile.  She gently brushed her cool fingers over Jo's bloody wrists and said “Don’t be afraid—you belong to me now.”  

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, but I'm kind of digging it. Let me know what you think :)


End file.
